


Justified Blueberries: SoC 1

by Gallusadin



Category: Original Work
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:48:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22780489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gallusadin/pseuds/Gallusadin
Summary: Stream of consciousness writing as an experiment, unfinished, unedited. May revisit. A teenage thief ponders life, work, and blueberries.





	Justified Blueberries: SoC 1

It was that fleeting hour of day when the moon and the sun are high and bright at the same time. Like many things in my life, these summer nights wouldn’t last much longer. I sat quietly on the stacked brick walls that lined the alleyways overlooking the harbor to the west. Watching the many fishing boats and fisherman who elected to call their daily harvest off at a proper time to tend to their families; or the pub, pull into harbor. Fishing an apple from my pocket and taking a not-insubstantial crunch, I couldn’t help but marvel at the industrious, relentless, almost monotonous labor of the hardy folks below; hardly mentioning those seemingly demonically possessed boats which still remained skirting the further waters of our shore. Desperate to haul in every last ounce of silver the waning daylight would bring them, 

A fool's errand, no doubt. 

It seemed to me, at the ripe age of fifteen, that I had figured out what this fervent mass of men below me could not. What was there in this life worth working yourself to death for? I swayed my feet carelessly in the warming, salt touched breeze of evening; for I wore no shoes, and chuckled mildly in self-satisfaction. Enjoying my ill-gotten dinner at the expense of those tired souls below, for I rarely “honestly” came by any meal that I obtained, I hardly noticed the sun begin to sink so low in the horizon that even the most devoted ships had pulled into harbor. 

With the suns rays now absent to bask in, and the spectacle of those foolhardy men working themselves to the bone no longer below to entertain me; I took up my small satchel (food, rope and the like) over my shoulder, and set off, walking along the raised brick alleyways over my beloved market district. I fancied this my kingdom, though none would offer me a crown, or position of honor. No, I was king not by common right, nor divine right, but my MY right. Among the scurrying mass of peoples below; trading goods or trading ideas, so desperate to curry the favor of the market, I stood apart; and for now quite literally, above. Few noticed what meager plundering of their wares I engaged in, partly due to their surplus, and partly due to my talent; and so I had secured both a moral, and tangible place in this society. 

Strolling along my high perch, enjoying the continuing emergence of the many stars and the sights and sounds from the streets below; I became suddenly lost in a sensation which came to me carried upon the wind like the music of heavens and robbed me of my sensibilities. Filling my nostrils and warming my body throughout to the point of numbness.

Blueberries.

Now I have always had a weak spot for blueberries. Though I had fled that cursed orphanage at nine years of age, the only pleasant memory I could dredge up from that hell was sunday tea; and sunday muffins. Bouncing my pack slightly on my shoulder, and sighing at the recognition that I had technically “obtained” enough provisions to last me a week or so, the usual moral limit I set to my confiscations; I elected in the moment to make a temporary ethical exception.

Is not every man entitled to at least a few of the luxuries of life? 

You quickly find when you are without a home that your nose can guide you as effectively, indeed if not more so, than your sight. No more than a handful of minutes had passed before I found myself crouched behind the awning of a tall shop, carefully peeking from behind the ostentatiously designed sign at a modest bakery below, from which a glowing oven was one of the last refuges against the fast encroaching moonlight.

A woman of absolutely unpronounceable age slowly worked dough on a large wooden counter-top, seemingly unaware of the empty streets around her. At risk of blowing my cover, I nearly burst aloud in laughter at the sight. At least those fishermen, foolish as they may be, worked until those who were willing to buy the fruits of their labor had retired for the night. Here labored this woman, producing goods for which there was no market, and which would surely have lost value by the time customers came back once more. If ever there was a target I had felt more morally sound in siphoning excess from, she was it. 

Having seemingly hit the jackpot of morally justified confiscation, and sure that this ancient creature would be either unaware of my presence, or incapable of producing an adequate response, I lept from my perch to the cobbled streets below, pulled my leather mask below my mouth (more out of habit than true concern) and approached the bakery with menacing intent; only to be stopped dead.

“Would you like a muffin?” called a hollow, endearing voice from behind the stand; stopping me in my tracks. “I have just finished a batch here and it seems no one is left on these streets to enjoy them” she trailed off, turning her attention once more to the oven.

A cold wash of fear overcame me as I stood frozen in place, unsure of where to go or what to do. Surely this must be a sting of some kind, I was sure my footsteps had been silent as death and she hadn’t turned her gaze to me once. Moments that passed like minutes passed as I stood still as a marble column. Eyeing the alleyways and crevices for the guard, that eternal thorn in my side.  
Yet this genuinely, honestly absurdly old woman continued to tend to her wares. Placing on her counter-top a platter of fresh blueberry muffins that could have been drawn from the bakeries of Olympus for all it mattered. Any suspicion I had melted quicker than the butter I intended to spread on top. I had fled from guards many times before, what would one more time be?


End file.
